


On Some Days

by Justalittleobsessed



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: A reflection of sorts, Depression, Episode: s03e21 Same As It Never Was, just a warning, this is kinda sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:20:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Justalittleobsessed/pseuds/Justalittleobsessed
Summary: Sometimes, if he listened closely enough, he could hear their voices. Not often, not often enough, but sometimes.It's too Quiet. He misses the Loud.
Kudos: 10





	On Some Days

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! This is my first fic in this fandom - and I hope you enjoy! Which one of the brothers this story is about is not explicitly stated, but there was one I had in mind when I wrote it. Tell me which brother you think it is, although I think it'll be pretty easy to figure out! Again, I hope you enjoy and have a wonderful day!

Sometimes, if he listened closely enough, he could hear their voices. Not often, not often enough, but sometimes.

Days where the wind weaved its way through the hollow, cracked streets - broken and crumbling - a lifeless remnant to what once was. Where their voices spoke over the distant and forgotten memory of the honking cars and the high pitched sound of sirens.  _ Quiet Quiet Quiet _ . 

Days where the people still standing, still  _ left _ , the ones that survived in this pitiful and truly horrible world roamed the streets sick and pale and shivering, silent in the day as they are in night. Ghosts.

_ Quiet. It’s too Quiet. It’s too Loud. The silence is driving him mad. _

The sky is dim and dull greys on these days. Monotonous. ( _ Muted _ ,  _ and cold. He was always so cold. _ ) Where the sun cowers behind the clouds, so depressing and small when it reappears. He misses the bright.

On days like these the wind whispers to him like echoes of a happier past, climbing and swirling up and up and up until it reaches him, lone and  _ lonely _ , mocking his very presence. 

Their laughter replays in his mind over and over and  _ over _ again, and when he blinks their shadows are laughing at his. On days like these he chases lost voices and vacant shadows, and he’ll  _ run run run _ to find them, only to turn up empty.

( _ He always turns up empty. _ )

_ Quiet. _

On other days, his brothers are  _ there right there _ standing by his side - strong and young and healthy and alive, full of life. On these days he likes to pretend he’s like that too.

He’ll let his visions run wild on hard days like this. When the world is broken at his feet and he is  _ sinking sinking sinking _ and everything is bland and muffled and he needs something to anchor him to the ground.

( _ They make him float higher. He knows this. It’s better to just ignore it. _ )

On these days, he spars with invisible figures on a half broken roof, and maybe, just maybe, if he’s  _ really _ lucky he’ll forget that he hates his life. Hates the world.

He didn't used to do that. Right? _He doesn’t really remember anymore._

Some days, his brother's hands are guiding him as he picks up their weapon.

They work him through moves only they know ( _ he knows because he watched them, but he lies to himself anyways _ ) and point out when he messes up. When he makes mistakes. 

( _ He always makes mistakes. _ )

_ Quiet. _

When he fights, they're his ghosts. His back. His eyes and his ears.

They tell him where to look and yell at him when to duck and shout where to block and it saves his life more times than he can count.

( _ If he's being honest, he knows he's the one saving his own sorry ass. But he's never honest with himself. At least, not enough, never enough to admit that. _ )

On other days it’s little more than a feeling.

A feeling in the back of his mind that feels so much like  _ them _ that it’s overwhelming. A feeling that’s a glare in the back of his head - insisting that he needs to eat at least a couple bites of food and that he needs at least a few hours of something that resembles sleep. He tries to listen. He always tries.

It's too hard.

That feeling of protectiveness and love that he so desperately craves when it’s day five without sleep and all he can do is stare at the wall and occasionally cry. Dull and muted and grey and lifeless like him.

_ Quiet. _

On lighter days, when it's a little warmer and his head fills with something akin to  _ Loud _ , if only for a brief moment, he'll  _ run run run _ for the hell of it.

Sometimes, on those days, if he stops for long enough he'll even hear music in the long silences. Sometimes _ their _ favorite songs come on.

On those days he slinks back to a dilapidated building that he's calling home for the week, and lays down on the hard, dirty floor.

He cries.  _ Dull. _

He doesn't move.  _ Muted. _

He misses them too much on those days.  _ Lifeless. _

_ Quiet. _

On some days, on some nights ( _ every night _ ) he finds himself standing at the ledge of a building, one foot over the edge. He’s just so  _ tired _ .

On those nights his brothers scream loud in his ears, desperate and pleading. He’ll laugh to himself then. They sound so scared. He’s not scared.  _ Should he be? _ On those days there's a force - powerful and protective - that pushes him back.

On those days he thinks that the ghosts of his brothers are actually there.

( _ Because if it were up to him, he would've stepped off that ledge long ago. _ )

( _ Long, long ago. _ )

_ (And if he's honest with himself, which he isn't, he thinks he might've fallen off that ledge many years ago, when the last spark of anything relating to hope left him, and all that was in its place was loneliness. Quiet, Quiet Loneliness.) _

On other days it's  _ Quiet _ . He hates  _ Quiet _ . He hates himself. He hates his brothers. He hates this city. He hates the smog and the cold and the grime.  _ Quiet Quiet Quiet. Loud. _

He hates a lot of things now.

He didn't use to.

On another day, a day he knows with absolute certainty will be his last, he lays down their weapons by their graves. 

Twin katanas, old and rusted, cool and calm, and faded lay down at Leonardo’s grave.

Two sais lay at Raphael's grave, streaked with a dirty red - passionate and angry and so protective of his family. 

One bo staff lays at Donatello's grave, wrapped purple, who's owner was too smart for his own good, whose genius kept their family alive and well for so many years.

Finally, two nunchaku lay down at Michaelangelo’s grave, a once vibrant and bright orange, so full of life. Once.

On this day, he lays down on the ground next to his brothers and stares up at the midnight sky. He had always liked doing that.

He takes one last look before closing his eyes.

The echoes of his brothers surround him, and wash over him, and he smiles for the first time in many, many, years.

On this day he'll see his family again.

On this day, he takes his final breath.

On this day, he is finally at peace.

_ Quiet. _


End file.
